Such thoughts betray me
by Sephaya
Summary: Scenes from a marriage.
1. Chapter 1

Reaching for the scarf and, draping it around her neck, she risked another glance in the mirror. They were to depart soon for the boat train; she could hear Henry's voice below ordering the motor brought around. She needed to make haste.

The wedding had been modest but Margaret's joy in this new connection was not dampened by the small company. She had been kissed by her new husband very tenderly indeed in the closed car as they returned to the house. The light in his eyes then, she thought, had little to do with the trappings she wore on this most important day, but rather with his delight in her lips and the warm pressure of her hands against his chest.

Throughout the afternoon they had entertained the few guests invited to a small reception. The well wishers numbered that most perfect amount that enabled even the most diligent hostess to hover near the person foremost in her thoughts. He had responded in turn, keeping her by him until she was borne away by her duties and calling her back when he spied her again. His conversation never slowed as he held forth, but she had felt his regard in the clasp of his hand around hers.

She wishes she could make some logical sense of this new marriage of hers. She knows Henry's blustering remonstrances have made some small headway against her own nature although she feels they have had little concrete effect on her general character. Indeed, the licence she grants him in so many issues is given with full knowledge of her own independent state of mind, a truth she acknowledges openly to herself no matter how much Helen might disagree. Though she may not always remonstrate in moments where she might have previously, she considers her right to do so an unalienable one. She, in time, hopes to make the same headway with him, invading his bluff defenses with her particular attentions.

Adjusting the scarf with restless hands, Margaret reflected on her desire to bring the less defined edges of his character into sharper relief. She ached for his struggle to breach the tight restriction he, and he alone, had placed upon himself, even though it seemed as yet an unconscious battle. She had often observed his strongly-etched opinions on propriety fighting with what could only be described as a _need_ for her - her attention, her understanding and, this was so new to her, her touch. These small tendrils of connection, traveling between the high hard walls of his outward character and the softer greener banks of his warmer nature, nurtured a warm tenderness within her. For all their intimacies, Helen and Tibby's familial connections had made little headway into this _particular_ dusty corner of her heart.

She is no longer surprised at these visible signs of dependence by her new husband, indeed, these small furtive efforts enflame some glowing ember deep within her breast. She wonders if he acknowledges this small warmth also. She enjoys his touch and wants him free to enjoy hers in turn. She hopes these embers, once nurtured in her embrace, will grow to feed his soul, too.

For the moment, though, Margaret can only rely on the power of her presence to move him and she was confident that it did. Strangely, she finds herself moved by his touches, as well, even the most innocent ones, in ways more than spiritual. She wonders how this fondness for such a physical connection will aid her as she learns things she has so far been acquainted with only obliquely, and solely due to the freedoms she and Helen granted themselves as independent women.

During the days leading to the wedding she had often found herself eyeing the square set of his shoulders and the expanse of his chest, comparing them with the uncovered forms of laborers in far-off summer fields glimpsed during country hikes. Listening to him holding forth on politics to the guests after the wedding ceremony she had found her attention drifting to the unknown potential of the firm arm that pressed her against his side, and the strong shape of the hand that held hers so tightly. These thoughts had been strangely distracting, and she blushed now to remember how she had responded quite distantly to those few well-meaning souls who commented on her suddenly flushed cheeks.

There was a knock on the door. Startled out of her revery, she turned, "Please, come in!"

Henry strode through the door already clad in his coat and cap. Approaching her, he took her hands and raised her to her feet.

"Well, Margaret, shall we away? We don't want to rush through the station, do we? Haste only begets mistakes."

She smiled at him and enjoyed the way his breath caught as he looked at her. Suddenly, he leaned forward, catching her lips with his. His grip on her hands tightened as she instinctively moved towards him.

"A man cannot keep his head when you look at him like that.", he muttered and kissed her again. Changing the angle of his head he caught her upper lip and she felt the gentle brush of his tongue against her mouth. She pressed tighter against him, curious at this new sensation and unsure at how to respond, but willing to try. She let her lips part slightly and thrilled at the small moan that escaped him.

Suddenly, the grasp of his hands loosened and Henry pulled away. She felt an aching empathy in response to the hoarseness of his voice as he spoke, "We need to leave, my dear." He squeezed her hands reassuringly, the expression in his eyes was warm.

Feeling far more roused than even the most scandalous French novels had led her to expect, she let him lead her from the room.


	2. Chapter 2

The train ride was long. Although she knew full well the particulars of any trip to Germany, which really only took slightly over two days, she was never able to resign herself to those endless moments of a journey in which she could simply not engage her mind on any diverting task. In the end, the trip to Dover must be endured, as must the one to Calais and then on to Berlin after that.

Her books were glanced through, and discarded as her unsettled mood forbade concentration. The few needlework projects she could normally endure were set aside, as the rattle of the wagon forbade precision. A new novel carelessly thrust into her hand by Helen at their last meeting made her head ache. Dover drew closer every minute, but not soon enough.

They would cross the Channel in the morning, so she had the night to look forward to. Conversation with her new husband had slowed as her yawns increased and he had advised genialy to close her eyes for a few moments. She had dozed, contentedly, against his shoulder for a while, but the slam of a door elsewhere in the car had roused her. She did not move her head away from its comfortable perch though and watched with sleepy eyes as he browsed a yellow-backed novel.

As she roused further, she began to sense a restlessness burning within her. Adjusting her head against Henry's shoulder, she wondered if he could sense the pounding pressure charging unrestrainedly throughout her limbs. She felt a sudden fevered need to crawl astride the figure next to her and press herself against him for relief.

He had given himself to her today, whether he understood that yet or not, and she found she was eager to claim him fully. She wanted to give herself to him in turn and truly grasp what that would entail. Slowly breathing through her mouth, she sought to slow the pounding of her heart and calm the wild instinct that had roused these feelings within her.

Trying to associate this feeling with any earlier one in an effort to understand its fervent nature, she could only bring to mind an impromptu bath in a mountain spring with Helen during one of their trips through the Alps. The guide had gone ahead and they had splashed in the spring with abandon, exposing their limbs to the brisk air and enjoying the immediacy of the physical world as it connected with each and every human soul. She wanted to connect in that way with her new husband, and she wanted him to know her more fully, whatever that entailed.

Unable to bear this feeling alone any longer, she unknit her hands from her lap and slid one over to rest lightly on Henry's thigh. At his inquisitive "Hmm?", she turned her head upwards to investigate the scent of his cologne along his collar and enjoy the slight drag of his whiskers against her cheek. She continued her slow movements against his neck and relished the sudden moment when his breath caught in his throat and he lost himself to her ministrations. It was the evening train, and the shades were drawn on their first class compartment.

She continued to explore this new territory as Henry pressed into her touch. The novel had fallen, unwanted, to the floor. She kissed his jaw and he exhaled with a low impassioned moan. Reaching out to her hand on his leg, he wound his fingers around hers to press her palm firmly onto the plane of his thigh. The hardness of his leg and the press of his hand against hers sparked a peculiar ache between her thighs. She gasped slightly and at the sound his hand tightened convulsively around hers. He turned towards her and, nudging her head backwards, lowered his head to hers. Her lips parted in anticipation of this renewed kiss and she felt his own lips part in turn.

There was no motorcar waiting, nowhere to be for another few hours and she felt it her right to exploit this opportunity to the fullest. All of her senses were aflame, even the smoothness of his silk tie under her fingers excited her. She shifted restlessly, pressing against him, trying to deepen their kisses. In response, Henry slid his free hand upwards to rest his hand on her throat. She thrilled at the feel of his bare hand on her skin, sliding her own fee hand down and underneath his coat to rest it on the sliver of linen exposed at the edge of his waistcoat.

Time passed, she knew not how long.


End file.
